Long Leggity Beastie
by johnsarmylady
Summary: A Post-Reichenbach Story - in response to Ennui Enigma's latest challenge! Rated K for odd bits of bad language!


**A post-Reichenbach story. Written in response to EE's latest challenge!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock, John or any of the other characters – just wish I did! Thanks to ACD, SM & MG (and the wonderful cast of SHERLOCK)!**

Had it really been nineteen months since….. No, he still couldn't say his name, not even in his head! The firelight flickered over his pale face as he sat and stared at nothing in particular. Into the silence his phone chirped.

'_John? You okay? – GL'_

'_Yeah. Thanks Greg. Fine – JW' _

He sighed, he knew it wasn't true – hell Greg probably knew it wasn't true – but he said it anyway. One day - _Dear God, one day!_ - it must be true.

'_Drink? – GL'_

'_Dimmock's buying, he got a pay rise! Lucky bastard! – GL'_

'_Thanks mate, not tonight. – JW'_

'_Well done – pay rise! Lucky git! – JW'_ text not sent.

Haven't used that particular term of endearment since… No, can't even think his name! Erase that text.

'_Dimmock, well done mate! Pay rise! Have one for me! – JW'_

A glance out of the window told him it was damp and miserable and matched his mood. Who was he kidding? Mood? It matched his whole bloody life since…..Oh for God's sake get a grip John Watson! It's been nineteen months for heaven's sake!

Pushing himself to his feet, John walked into the kitchen, and out of habit checked that there was nothing in the kettle before filling it. Leaning back against the kitchen table he glanced behind him – habit again – but of course the test tubes had been put away long ago, put away – not given away, John couldn't – sentiment.

In the quiet of the flat he could hear children laughing and joking as they sped down Baker Street, and part of his mind registered that for a predominantly commercial area there were lots of families living around the locality.

The kettle boiled, and he made a mug of tea. He had to stop himself from getting that second mug out of the cupboard – nothing new there though, he's been doing that every day since…

On the arm of his chair the phone chirped again.

'_John, your friends are worried about you. Do go out for a drink – MH'_

'_Piss off Mycroft – JW'_

He flung the phone onto the other armchair – **his** armchair – and sat down and glared at the offending piece of technology. He saw the screen flash as it chirped again.

'_Childish, John. You weren't always so. – MH'_

'_You are not my keeper. Greg is not my handler. – JW'_

A knock on the door and a soft 'cooee!' heralded the arrival of Mrs Hudson.

"Hello dear," she trotted in carrying a plate with two cupcakes, both decorated in lurid coloured buttercream swirls and weird icing shapes. "I heard you pottering in the kitchen and though you might like a couple of cakes with your tea!" she looked at him so hopefully that he smiled and took the plate. After all, she had worried so since….

"Thank you." The smile was genuine, even if he knew he was unlikely to eat the home-made delights.

"Shall I close those curtains for you? It's such a miserable night!" Mrs Hudson moved towards the window but Johns voice stopped her.

"Not my housekeeper Mrs H," he reminded her gently, "You shouldn't be running around after me. Leave the curtains, I'll sort them in a while."

"As you wish…." She looked sadly down at the doctor, at a loss to know what to say. It wasn't right, him moping around here. His smile no longer reached his eyes, and his clothes no longer fitted him quite so well. Closing the door softly she retreated to her own flat.

"Nice. Well done, Watson!" John chided himself. "Brilliant. Charming. How to hurt an old lady's feelings!" He frowned at the cakes on the plate. No, he won't eat them, at least not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Throughout the evening callers knocked on the front door, and John vaguely noted that each time Mrs Hudson answered the door with a chuckle and a kindly word for the visitor.

Like an automaton John went through the motions of living, stoking the fire as it started to burn down, picking up a book and staring at the pages but not reading a single word, listening to the monotonous tick, tick, of the clock. He heard Mrs Hudson locking the door of her flat before going to bed.

What was that? John looked at the clock – eleven thirty – where had the evening gone? And that noise? He cocked his head and listened. It definitely sounded familiar. A shiver ran down his back – a draught? No, Mrs Hudson closed the door so…..

"Hello John."

John Watson, doctor, soldier, veteran of three campaigns in Afghanistan, froze. No! That voice! It can't be! He hasn't heard that voice since….. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had known it would only be a matter of time before he lost his mind completely.

"John?"

That voice, uncertain now. Please God don't torment me!

Footsteps softly crossing the room, a hand gently touching his shoulder.

"John?"

John shot out of his chair and spun round. No! It couldn't be! Surely it's not…..

"Sherlock?"

That thin face was thinner still, the skin paler than John recalled, but the eyes! They held that spark and glitter he thought he'd never see again, that he thought lost the day he had looked into them and saw no life at all…..no life….no life…..the words chased each other round his head, over and over. He saw Sherlock's mouth move, but all he could hear was the rushing, roaring in his ears.

Suddenly galvanised into action he rushed forward and grabbed the man who stood before him by the lapels of his oh-so-familiar long coat and slammed him up against the wall. Sherlock winced.

"Are you real?" John's voice was a harsh whisper, his blue eyes looking pleadingly up into Sherlocks grey ones.

"I am."

"How? No, scratch that! I don't know that I can hear that yet…"

"John, please, let me explain…"

"Why?"

Sherlock blinked, surprised. "Don't you want to know…."

"No, Sherlock, I mean why now? Why tonight?"

"Why not tonight?" Sherlock was confused, and just a little worried. He had known his 'death' would have been hard on his friend, his best friend, his _**only**_ friend, but he hadn't reckoned on the haunted expression on Johns face and the slightly manic way he clutched at the coat lapels.

Suddenly John giggled. He hung his head and giggled like a child at Christmas.

"You really don't know do you? For all your incredible intellect, you really have no idea!" he finally managed to get his hysterics under control. "The date? 31st October? I mean….timing, Sherlock….TIMING!"

**A/N: the title is taken from A Cornish Prayer:**

_**From Goulies and Ghosties **_

_**And Long Leggity Beasties**_

_**And things that go bump in the night**_

_**Good L**__**ord deliver us!**_** (**** Anon.)**


End file.
